


I've Got A Little List

by Signy1



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Comprehending motivations, Friendship, Gen, Precautions, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signy1/pseuds/Signy1
Summary: They've got files full of codebooks, maps, contact lists, and all sorts of other information. Spies need that stuff; those files are meant to be seen, be used, be read. And then there's the one file they all hope nobody ever has to see. It's no secret that Newkirk can't seem to leave the just-in-case file alone; no one ever found out why that was so. Until now. 2019 PBA medalist. Revised/reposted from FF.net.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

They called it the ‘just in case’ file, and for the most part, they tried to forget it was there. Each of them had written The Letter Home, the one that they hoped nobody would ever have to see; without saying anything about it, each of them had also written a farewell to their teammates. Just in case.

The manila envelopes they used were not sealed, and it was not entirely unusual for one or another of them to update their letters as events seemed to warrant. Carter’s envelope, for example, had originally contained a passionate and loving farewell to Mary Jane. For obvious reasons, after receiving her Dear John, he had to rethink that one a bit. Carter removed it from the file, but he didn’t get rid of it immediately. He couldn’t. For a while, he carried it around in his jacket pocket, not quite ready to let it go. After a couple of weeks of grieving, though, he burned the farewell. In an odd way, it had served its purpose, after all; he was saying goodbye to his first love and an old dream, if not quite the way he’d feared. His other letters he left largely as they were, with only occasional, minor updates. He thought that he’d gotten most of it right the first time.

Kinch and LeBeau wrote their letters, stuffed them into their envelopes, and, superstitiously, left them strictly alone. Out of sight, out of mind. Not that the looming possibility that the letters represented was ever really out of anyone’s mind.

Hogan took out his letters every once in a while and checked them over. Most often after the close calls—not just their everyday, business-as-usual close calls, but the _really_ bad ones, the ones that had taxed his ingenuity and his nerve to their breaking point. The ones that haunted him. He read them the night LeBeau had been shot, the evening Newkirk had been arrested by the Gestapo, the day Hercules died, the morning he’d been informed that he’d been recalled and was due to be replaced by the biggest idiot on either side of the war. It was not exactly a cheerful sort of ritual, or, for that matter, an encouraging one, but there was a kind of peace in it, a kind of strength. _I will do the best I can, for as long as I can,_ it said to him. _When the day comes that my best isn’t good enough, I will know that I tried. I will know that I gave it everything I had. And so will my family._ It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. But there was a war on, after all, and he took what he could get. Cold comfort was better than nothing.

Newkirk updated his file often enough that the corners of the envelope were dog eared and slightly fuzzy. When asked what in Sam Hill he thought he was doing with his constant revisions, he usually smiled and said something flippant about his coterie of beautiful English roses, and his undeniable obligation to ease each and every one of those potentially broken hearts. Only fair, after all.

This became less and less believable as time wore on and the ladies stopped writing—or worse, sent wedding announcements—but he stuck to his story, and no one really wanted to think too hard about the subject, anyway. They didn’t press for details.

Kinch came into the radio shack one afternoon, cautiously hoping that he was facing nothing more dire than another dull shift spent watching the radio do absolutely nothing. Newkirk, the headphones clamped over his ears and a thoughtful scowl on his face, was scribbling as fast as he could, transcribing what appeared to be a great deal of information from, presumably, London. Putting down the pencil, he tapped out a reply, listened to something he didn’t bother writing down, and slid the headphones off to rest around his neck.

“Allo, Kinch,” he said. “Just in time. I was just finishing up.”

“Was that a message from London? Is there a mission for us?”

“No to the second and yes to the first. No emergency, mate. Just needed a bit of information. Personal matter.”

Kinch folded his arms. “Are you trying to get that lady sergeant’s phone number again? You do remember what the Colonel said the _last_ time you tried asking her out, don’t you?” 

“Vividly. And I still think it’s more than a tad hypocritical that a man who’s snogged every female Underground agent, informant, and defector in this part of Germany got so shirty about a lonely enlisted man’s attempts to find love.” He shook his head. “Officers. I ask you.”

“The Colonel _does_ tend to volunteer for any mission that involves a pretty girl,” Kinch said. And that was putting it mildly. It was hard to ignore the fact that Hogan had a habit of returning to camp smeared with lipstick and smelling of perfume. The rest of the team tended to come back from missions smeared with and smelling of very different things, and nobody really considered soot, sweat, dirt, cordite, grease, blood, and worse as adequate replacements for Chanel #5. 

“Glad I’m not the only one what’s noticed,” Newkirk said. “Even for an officer, that’s a bit cheeky. The only time _I’m_ allowed to mingle with the fairer sex is when I’m in that bloody dress.”

Well, that wasn’t quite true, but Kinch, considerately, did not mention Greta. Or Berlin Betty. Or North Star. Come to think of it, it did seem as though every girl Newkirk had met since the war began had done her best to have him tortured, shot, or both. Newkirk was quite possibly the living personification of the old saw, ‘lucky in cards, unlucky in love.’ Perhaps he was better off sticking to letters and the occasional try at the lady sergeant, after all, Kinch thought.

“Maybe your luck will improve in the next war,” said Kinch. “What sort of information were you requesting, if it wasn’t the sergeant’s phone number? Or her measurements?”

“Nothing pressing,” said Newkirk. “Just keeping on top of a few details.” He tore several sheets of paper from the pad and folded them in half, tucking them into his jacket pocket. “It’s all right, mate. London knows exactly what I’m doing and why. They approve. It’s completely legitimate.”

“Does the Colonel know about this legitimate business of yours?”

“I’ve no idea. Never felt any need to inquire. I imagine it’s occurred to him, but we’ve never sat down to discuss the matter over tea and scones, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Kinch shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of this, Newkirk. Remember the last time we tried going behind his back to surprise him? We nearly surprised ourselves in front of a firing squad. What are you up to?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nothing! I’m keeping the just-in-case file up to date, and that’s _all_ I’m doing. Background research. No possible danger in it.”

“The just-in-case file? What are you putting in there that you could possibly need London’s help to find? Do you have them tracking down forwarding addresses for your girlfriends or something?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Newkirk, with a dismissive wave of a hand. “This is strictly business.”

“ _What_ business? Look, Newkirk, the radio link isn’t something I can let you just play around with. I think the Colonel needs to know about this. I’m sorry, but if you don’t tell him, then I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Newkirk didn’t respond for a moment. He just gave Kinch a long, cool look, with the faintest of smiles on his face, and he let the silence stretch just a hair longer than was comfortable. “Well, if you feel that strongly about it, mate, I guess you’d better go do just that,” he said. “It’s no kind of secret, and I’m not ashamed of what I’m doing.” 

Kinch hadn’t been expecting that. He’d expected anger, or possibly trepidation. An argument, at the very least. This was Newkirk, after all; he argued as naturally—and nearly as constantly—as he breathed. Getting, instead, an unconcerned, dismissive suggestion that Kinch ‘go do just that,’ with an unspoken ‘see if I care’ tacked on to the end of it, was like stepping off a curb he hadn’t realized was there. ‘Publish and be damned’ was about the last thing he’d expected from Newkirk, and now Kinch was the cornered one.

He took a breath. “I don’t want to play the heavy here, and I’m not trying to get you in trouble. But fiddling around with the radio, sending God knows what messages back and forth… that could get us _all_ in trouble, don’t you see? C’mon, Pete. Don’t make me rat you out. Tell the Colonel yourself, okay? Just ‘fess up, apologize, and get it over with. You know it’ll go easier for you if you do.”

“I’m not doing anything I feel the need to apologize for. And nothing in this whole business ever had anything much to do with making things go easier on _me,_ so that’s more or less a moot point. Tell the Colonel or don’t; that’s up to you.” Deliberately, Newkirk took off the headphones and leaned back a bit further in the chair, that icy little smile still playing about his lips.

Kinch looked at him, and reflected, yet again, that behind the jokes and the affability lay a man that he would not at all have liked to meet in a dark alley. “This is really the hill you want to die on, huh?”

For some reason, that surprised a snort of laughter out of Newkirk. “Let’s just say, Kinch, old man, that if it is, I’m about as prepared as I can be.”

“Fine. I’m sorry, but if that’s how you want it, you’re not leaving me a whole lot of choice, here.”

“Newkirk comma Peter, Corporal, serial number—”

“Oh, cut it out! For God’s sake, why are you being so damn stubborn? Let’s just get Hogan, we’ll iron the whole thing out, and get on with our lives! Just tell him!”

*.*.*.*.*.*

As luck would have it, Hogan just happened to be coming down the tunnel in time to catch that last bit. He had no idea what mischief might be afoot, but he did know an entrance cue when he heard one, and he never wasted one of those if he could possibly help it. He leaned casually against the doorway, as if he had been standing there for some time. “Tell me what?”

Both men stopped in their tracks, obviously taken by surprise, and both snapped their heads around to look at him. Their reactions were interesting. Kinch looked apprehensive, and slightly guilty, at his inadvertent snitchery. Newkirk just looked somewhere between frustrated and annoyed.

With one quick—almost apologetic—look in Newkirk’s direction, Kinch began. “I came down here and found Newkirk using the radio. He said it was a personal matter.”

“Personal, huh? What kind of personal matter required the radio?”

“Nothing bad, Colonel,” said Newkirk. “Nothing to concern yourself over, neither. I’m updating the just-in-case file, like I’ve been doing since we _made_ the just-in-case file, and I needed some information from London. That’s _all_. Nothing secret, nothing sinister, and nothing dangerous. It’s not like I was receiving secret orders from Berlin; those don’t come until Thursday.”

“What sort of information?” Hogan asked, ignoring that last bit of bitter sarcasm, and careful to make certain that there was no accusation in his voice. Yet. But, as a rule, neither last wills nor farewell letters tended to need a great deal of outside assistance, so there was definitely something rotten in the state of Denmark.

Obediently, if with a tightly clenched jaw, Newkirk took the folded papers from his jacket pocket and handed them over. “Disciplinary issues, for the most part,” he said. “There’s not too many men being offered the choice between enlisting and going to prison anymore, but there are still a few. One new one this month, in fact.”

If that was supposed to have cleared things up, it hadn’t, Hogan thought, nonplussed. He took the papers, automatically, and skimmed the list of names and infractions, hoping it would eventually start to make some sort of sense.

“I’ll grant you,” Newkirk continued. “These are the fellows that got _caught_ , so it’s not exactly a shining reference, but it’s somewhere to start, anyhow. Hard to keep records on the ones who get away with it, after all. You’d never have found me this way.”

Hogan nodded absently, still scanning the list. Several of the incidents seemed to be pranks gone wrong, and a couple of them were cases of presumably beer-induced stupidity, but mostly they referred to deliberate thefts. One of the latter, which Newkirk had marked with a star, featured an airman who’d apparently made something of a habit of sneaking into locked supply depots, and had in fact been caught with a locker full of contraband luxuries and the lockpicks still in his pocket. Newkirk was right about one thing, at least. It wasn’t exactly a shining character reference.

“So you’re keeping tabs on every troublemaker in the RAF…?” The penny dropped. “Wait a minute. Not every troublemaker... every _thief_. You’re making a list of possible replacements for yourself?”

“Of course I am,” said Newkirk said, his tone making it clear that he thought it should have been blindingly obvious. “Just in case. Louie’s doing his best to become a safecracker, and he’s not half bad at it, but he’s never going to be up to my level, no more than I’ll ever be up to Alfie’s. Besides, he’s utter rubbish at picking pockets and just plain doesn’t have the touch for the lockpicks. If my ticket should get punched, you’re going to need a whole lot more than just him. I can’t be responsible for leaving you lot shorthanded, now can I? Like I said, these idiots are the ones what got caught, but I thought it was better than nothing. It gives you some choices, at least.”

Hogan picked up Newkirk’s worn envelope and slid out the contents. A couple of sealed letters—one addressed to the team, the other to Mavis— actually were in there, but the rest of the thick stack of papers, Hogan saw, was a meticulous and much-corrected list of names, serial numbers, and infractions, with a few lines of commentary on each one.

Incredulous, he asked, “How long have you been doing this?” The file represented an enormous amount of work. It was far more than just the raw information from London; he had analyzed it—repeat offenders, skills displayed, overall complexity—and ranked them in descending order of quality. He must have spent untold hours collating the information, quietly minimizing any potential impact of his death as best he could. Minimizing it on a _professional_ level, at least.

“Since the beginning,” Newkirk said, still sounding as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “A stitch in time, wouldn’t you say? What else is the bloody file _for_ if not to make things easier on the ones left behind?”

Kinch looked at the radio. He had not spent a great deal of time thinking about who might sit at that desk if he were no longer there to do so, and that was no accident. It wasn’t a comfortable thought. He was fairly sure that Carter wasn’t keeping dossiers on USAAF pyromaniacs, either. And the day LeBeau would so much as contemplate someone else in his kitchen, pigs would take to the skies in flocks. As for the Colonel… well, without Hogan there would be no operation. It was just that simple. 

Hogan shook his head minutely, stunned, and slipped the papers back into their envelope. Honesty compelled him to admit that if—God forbid—that list was ever to become necessary, he would be more than grateful to have it. And further compelled him to admit both that he should have thought of doing something similar a long time ago… and that he almost certainly would not do so. “I’m impressed,” he finally said. “Very… thorough, and, um, foresighted of you. _Morbid_ , but foresighted.”

“Just trying to prevent any little troubles that might crop up if I were to take an unscheduled early retirement,” Newkirk said with a shrug. “It’s not foolproof. I can’t guarantee that any of these fellows are any good, let alone that they’re the sort you’d want to be saddled with. For that matter, I can’t promise that they’d even be willing to take the job if you offered it to them. They probably won’t have my irresistible charm and devastating good looks either, but needs must.”

That was probably supposed to have been someone’s cue to break the tension with a withering comeback of some sort. Perhaps along the lines of ‘or your astounding modesty, either?’ or, simply, an eloquently disbelieving snort of the sort LeBeau did to perfection. For once, no one rose to the bait.


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan looked at the envelope in his hand, then at Newkirk, who was wearing his blandest expression. “I do have one other question,” he said.

“Fire when ready, Colonel,” said Newkirk.

“This list of replacements… we all know that you’ve been here a long time. Is this your way of asking to go home? Do you want to escape?”

“No, sir. Well, _yes_ , of course I’d like to get out of this rathole, but no, I’m not asking for favors, and I don’t want to leave. Not until we all do,” said Newkirk. “I’ll freely admit there’s not much I wouldn’t do to get back home. In fact, there’s only one thing I can think of that I’d stick at, and that’s skiving off and leaving the job half done. No, sir; I’m here for the duration.”

“You’re sure about that? I wouldn’t hold it against you if you were thinking of requesting a transfer. This is a lot of work for a contingency plan you didn’t want anyone to know about. Unless you’ve got ideas about putting it into effect.”

“Not like that, I don’t. I told you a long time ago, sir; I’ve never expected to walk out of here. I didn’t expect it _before_ I signed on with you, and I surely don’t expect it now, but we’ll win this war if I’ve anything to say about it. One way or the other, I’ll see the job through to the end.”

“I’ve met a few pessimists in my time, but you take the cake,” said Kinch. “How do you get up every morning with an attitude like that?”

“Same way you do, mate; Schultz bangs on the bunk two inches away from my head and shouts like the devil’s own alarm clock, and I curse in four languages while I’m putting on my boots and stumbling into the yard. What would you rather I do? Give up?”

“It sounds like you already have,” Kinch said. “I don’t get it, Pete. I really don’t. You’re making it sound like you don’t even care what happens to you.”

“Oh, I care,” said Newkirk. “Coward that I am? Believe you me— _I don’t want to die_. That’s never what this was about. But if you expect the worst, then it can’t hurt you too much when it happens. And if by some ruddy miracle it doesn’t, then you get a very pleasant surprise indeed.”

“That’s some philosophy,” said Hogan. “You’re one of a kind, that’s all I can say.”

“You’d bloody well better hope not,” said Newkirk, with a wry half-smile. “In fact, I’ve gone to rather a lot of trouble to make certain you know I’m not.”

Hogan, the envelope still in his hands, suppressed a grimace. “Come on upstairs, Newkirk,” he said. “I’m going to put this back in the file drawer for now. And then Carter was trying to scrape up a few more players for the baseball game this afternoon; I think we all need some fresh air. Kinch, you want to play? We could use your pitching arm.”

“No, Colonel; I’ll finish my shift down here,” said Kinch. “Thanks anyway.”

“Fair enough. See you in a couple of hours, then,” said Hogan, and turned to go. Kinch, he could tell, needed a bit of space, and his accustomed post in the quiet radio shack was probably the closest thing to sanctuary he was going to find.

Newkirk followed Hogan, pausing only long enough to clap Kinch on the shoulder with a quicksilver grin that said, more clearly than words, that, so far as he was concerned, the subject was closed, everything was all right between them, and he hoped Kinch felt the same.

Kinch couldn’t let it go that easily, though. He sat down at the silent radio and brooded. Usually, he spent the long, monotonous hours reading, or repairing whatever bit of equipment had decided to be recalcitrant on that particular day. Today… well, he’d brought a book that he already knew he wasn’t going to open, and there was a walkie-talkie with fried wiring that was just going to have to be patient a little while longer. He wasn’t in the mood.

The radio was silent. The guys back in London didn’t seem to have anything more to say. Not to him, at any rate. They’d gotten on the horn, helped Newkirk update his list of people who could replace him before his body was cold, and then taken a tea break, apparently done for the day. Icy-hearted bastards.

Sure, there was a war on; he understood that. And even if there hadn’t been, no one was really irreplaceable, and no one’s safety was ever guaranteed. The risks were slightly more exaggerated in wartime, that was all; the dangers just a little more immediate. One bit of bad luck, one wrong step, one wrong word, one itchy Kraut with halfway decent aim, and any night could turn tragic in the blink of an eye. They all knew it.

Even if their luck held, and their missions continued to go comparatively smoothly, there were other dangers. The tunnels could, and occasionally did, collapse. An air raid could come a bit too close. The stove could malfunction and asphyxiate them some night. There could be another bout of cholera, or typhus, or goddamned bubonic plague. They could forget to look both ways before crossing the compound, and get creamed by a truck. It could happen. Anything could happen.

He’d thought he’d come to terms with that uncertainty a long time ago.

That eternal, unrelenting sense of danger was something they all had to live with, and Kinch doubted that he was the only one who had ever found himself almost hoping that, if it had to be someone, it wouldn’t be one of his friends. He glanced at the radio again, looked away. No, he _knew_ that he wasn’t the only one who almost hoped it.

There were no grimly careful, painstakingly thorough lists of radio operators or electronics repairmen in his handwriting, and for the first time it struck him that there probably should have been.

He wanted to survive. He _intended_ to survive. He never let himself believe for a moment that he _wouldn’t_ survive. And yet.

And yet.

He sighed, and got up from his chair. Maybe the broken walkie-talkie was his best bet, after all. Hogan was right; he needed a distraction, and it was going to take some fancy footwork to return that hunk of junk to something resembling working condition. He needed to return _himself_ to something resembling working condition, and that was going to take some even fancier footwork. A really tough job, with absolutely nothing crucial riding on it, might just do the trick. He thought he’d left it in the metal shop, and his toolbox, too.

He went down the corridor at top speed, ducked automatically under the low door to the metal shop, and stepped inside. Baker was already sitting there, bent over a table strewn with radio innards, and the younger man looked up with a smile.

“Hi, Kinch,” he said. “Take a look at this thing, will you? I think I’ve just about got it back in one piece, but I’d like a second opinion. What a mess. I’m not sure I even want to know how the guys managed to do this much damage.”

“Years of practice,” Kinch said and smiled back.

“It shows,” said Baker. “It must have been some mission. I’ve been trying to figure out what they used on the poor thing—was it a blowtorch, a sledgehammer, or a Sherman tank?”

“Good guesses, all of them. What did you finally decide?”

“All of them. One at a time, and then all together. It took me more than an hour just to get it disassembled, and never mind putting it back together.”

“You fixed the walkie-talkie?”

“Well, not quite, but it’s getting there,” said Baker. “I’m getting pretty good at repairing these things. I keep telling myself that I’m learning a trade for after the war. If all else fails, I’ve got a future as a repairman all lined up. Assuming civilians routinely throw their electronics down cliffs, dunk them into rivers, flatten them under boulders, and set them on fire.”

Kinch chuckled. “In that order?”

Baker kept a straight face. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But after this little repair job, I don’t put anything past you guys in the core team.”

“Well, it keeps us out of mischief,” said Kinch, with a wry shrug.

“Mischief! Heh. I’d say that this thing looked like it had been through a war, but that wouldn’t cover the half of it. If this is what you call keeping out of mischief, I don’t think I’d like to see your idea of trouble.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I would, either,” said Kinch, no longer amused, and thinking, once again, of a handwritten dossier. “Thanks for fixing the radio, anyway.”

“Any time,” said Baker. “Happy to do it. Not that much else on my calendar, you know?”

“Well, if you put it like that,” said Kinch, then trailed off as a thought struck him. “Say, Baker?”

“Yeah? What is it?”

Kinch took a deep breath. “Would you like to learn a little more about our radio setup? Not just these little portable numbers; the big one. If you’d like… I could give you a crash course.”

“Really? That would be fantastic, Kinch,” said Baker, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’d like that.”

“Great. Let’s get started, then,” said Kinch. “It couldn’t hurt to have a few more guys on staff who know how to get this baby working. You know…” He swallowed. “Just in case.”

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author’s note: There are a few continuity questions that everyone asks, sooner or later—was Carter ever really a lieutenant? What happened to Klink’s first secretary? And, of course, why did Kinch vanish in the last season?

I figure there are three possible answers. Either he went home, he was killed, or else he actually _was_ there in camp, just not onscreen for the particular missions that season showcased. Number one is possible but a bit iffy; he obviously didn’t break Klink’s vaunted no-escapes record. I reject number two entirely, solely because I don’t want that to be how it happened, and there’s no canonical evidence otherwise, so there. Leaving us with number three, where Baker was already a member of the ‘second string’ core group that included Olsen, and just happened to take a more active role in those particular episodes. So here’s one possible way he might have become part of the radio crew. And one possible reason Kinch might have wanted him there.


	4. Chapter 4

May, 1945

The last few weeks of the war were frantic, a flurry of activity. The tunnels needed to be filled in. The periscopes needed to be dismantled and the various listening devices retrieved. Their tools and equipment needed to be broken down and either removed or destroyed. Much of it was smuggled back out to the Underground, who could always find good homes for orphaned radio equipment. The forgery tools had also been gratefully accepted; Hogan had not inquired too closely as to what, if any, legitimate peacetime uses they were to be put. They also needed to restore the barracks—the camp as a whole, really—to factory specifications before anyone got too close a look at their improvements; very few stoves, for example, are on hinges, and it is a rare sink that can unfold into a periscope. More than five years’ worth of clandestine modifications needed to be undone in a matter of weeks, and it was grueling, but no one minded the work all that much. There was, they had reasoned, at least a fifty percent chance that the camp would end up with a new set of residents, and if the Nazis wanted a tunnel, they could damn well dig their own. The soon-to-be-ex-POWs weren’t about to give them one.

Yes, there was a lot to do. There was a lot of documentation that needed to be burned, too; maps and contact lists and codebooks and half a forest’s worth of other paperwork. Hogan, with Kinch’s assistance, took care of much of that; together they sorted out the very few papers Hogan felt it might be important to keep, and the rest of them were piled into crates for discreet disposition.

Hogan chuckled as he picked up an envelope full of blackmail photos. Half of the Nazi chain of command, it seemed, had been caught (or, usually, been carefully maneuvered,) _in flagrante delicto_ at one time or another, and they’d gotten pictures of all of it. “Wow; get a load of these! Think anyone will want them after the war?”

“Ugh. As what? Rat repellent?” Kinch, flipping through the sheaf, was unfortunate enough to get far too good a look at a cheesecake photo of General Burkhalter in close-up, and made a face. “Please, Colonel. I’ll have enough nightmares about this place; I don’t need more. Chuck them,” he said, handing them back.

Hogan might have argued the case a bit further, simply for the pleasure of being contrary, if he hadn’t looked down and noticed a shot of Major Hochstetter wearing nothing but a very small swastika and a very big smile. He shuddered. “Yep. These need to go. Pronto,” he agreed.

When he came to the just-in-case file, Hogan stopped. Slowly, he opened the folder, removed a handful of smaller envelopes, each with a name written across the front, and stared at them for a moment. “Kinch?” he said. “Do you think anyone will want these?”

Kinch started to say no, then yes, then shook his head no again. “I doubt it, but that’s just my opinion. God knows I don’t want mine, but I can’t speak for anyone else.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Hogan. Raising his voice a bit, he said, “What about the rest of you fellows?”

Olsen grinned. “Not me. You can do the honors, Colonel.”

Baker, too, shook his head. “I was never much of a writer. Thanks anyway.”

LeBeau shrugged. “What would I ever want it for? I am going home to say ‘bonjour;’ there is no need for an ‘au revoir.’ Into the fire with it.”

“No. Definitely not,” said Carter, looking into the past for a moment, and remembering the prettiest girl in Rutherford B. Hayes Polytechnic High School, whose letter was long since gone from the folder. Somewhere along the line, he realized, the memory had lost all power to hurt.

“I don’t think I ever want to see mine again, either,” Hogan said. The last envelope, the thickest and most battered, he hefted in his hand for a moment. “Newkirk?”

“There are at least three dozen fine upstanding citizens listed in there who’d not thank me for sharing their personal shortcomings with the general public,” said Newkirk, with that familiar Cheshire Cat grin on his face, not unmixed with a fierce sort of triumph. “Best feed the fire before they find out about it and come looking to settle scores.”

Hogan met the grin with one of his own. “Fair enough,” he said, and with one motion, pitched the entire file into the stove. For a long moment they just stood there, watching the flames devour all the goodbyes they’d been spared and the precautions that had proved blessedly unnecessary, and it struck them all, more or less simultaneously, that the goodbyes still to come would be, if hardly as tragic, at least as difficult as the ones for which they thought they’d prepared themselves.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author’s note: As the old saying goes, it’s better to have and not need, then need and not have. But best of all, in a case like this, with a team like this one, to have and not _lose_. Baker might have been a perfectly fine radio operator if Kinch had actually left; whoever was on that list might even have been just as talented a thief if they had happened to misplace Newkirk somewhere along the line... but it would never, ever have been the same. The story title was drawn from the Mikado, and the song is all about people who, should they be made to permanently disappear, ‘never would be missed.’ I think we all know that’s a load of nonsense.


End file.
